Dead Blossoms: The Third Geisha

by Richard Monaco

  “It was my duty to assist you, in my small way, Takezo-san,” said the serving girl from Hideo’s stronghold who’d helped him get outside despite the massive jolt of alcohol in him.

  “Your name?”

  “Aika,” she told him.

  “Why was that your duty? You serve Hideo clan.”

  “I am close to Miou She loves you… we … ”

  “We?” He decided to press it, sensing she knew something. “Are you also a part of a ninja family?”

  Her eyes told him no more than Miou’s would have. They were nice, cautious eyes.

  “That sir, would make me a spy, or worse,” she replied. “A dangerous idea.”

  He brushed, again, at a ball of pine needles and felt the pleasant, tiny pricks.

  “Aika, Miou’s friend and companion in deception,” he said, “I want her to be safe.” He rubbed his long nose. “What do you have tattooed under your arm?”

  “Tattooed, sir?” She seemed uneasy. “What words!”

  “I spy things out. I have the eye of a hunting hawk.” He kept a straight face, going on: “I miss nothing even so small as Mount Fuji-san. I detect things as subtly hidden as a festival parade.”

  “Ah.” She smiled faintly, mainly with her eyes.

  “I am matchless. Almost nothing fails to elude me.”

  “I cannot linger, sir, to learn more of your skills. You need to know that Lady Issa and the Chamberlain are secretly lovers and share many plans together that her lord is ignorant of. It appears the poor daughter had unpleasant words with Chamberlain Naruto Reiko just before she –”

  “Ran away,” he interrupted. “Interesting.”

  “And now is gone.”

  He took this in as he touched the branch and shook it slightly, watching the soft waves of massed needles sway as if there was a message there. He blinked and rubbed his stubbly chin.

  “Gone where?”

  We work so hard to be natural, he thought, tangentially, to move with the grace of this tree limb…

  “I think you know, sir,” she said. “I must leave.”

  “We are so clumsy,” he murmured. “Our plots, our skills… I already suspect she is not dead. You need not hint it to me. Thank you twice again, young woman.”

  She was already moving, leaving the low-hanging shelter of the branches into the brightness.

  “Yes. Thank you. Miou must leave the city,” she said back, as she bobbed gracefully, short-stepping in a partial run and was lost in the busy street, moments later.

  He had an idea: it appealed to the artist and the spy in him. He needed to confront the main players in this murderous drama so why not confront them with drama?

  In the end, all men’s actions become a play or tale, he considered. We act these parts because we’re used to them… it’s clear I should run away to the mountains with her and lose this senseless way of life… it’s all remembering and a mere blow to the head could knock me into forgetting and would I not become another man? A better one would be easy, with no shames remembered… a play, that’s good…

  Smiled and shook his head. Chuckled. Make them see something in an unexpected way. Maybe recognize themselves.

  We don’t notice what we really are until forced, he thought. We live and breathe in the amazing air and notice little about it until a violence of wind knocks the world down or we’re choking to death for lack of it…

  He went into the street, liking the idea. What he considered his dirty, bloody life was sometimes improved by poetry and pure sword practice; but the sword lost all beauty once you had to use it.

  He headed to the watch house where Koba Taro, a senior policeman of his long acquaintance, former underworld chief and noted martial artist, usually could be found. Taro was now on the respectable side of crime – though he insisted he respected himself less.

  When I come back tonight I’ll find the actors I need… I’m reckless… but I’m sober… He passed a tobacco shop where two men were smoking long, metal pipes; pipes that could be used as deadly weapons by the skillful. These were as popular with the commoners as metal fans were with samurai for technically unarmed combat. He smelled the pungent smoke mixed with a whiff of incense and perfume from some lady passing in a closed palanquin, then, turning up the next narrower way into scents of cooking fish and hot steam from a public bath as he worked through the crowded street: high-pitched chatter of women washing clothes in tubs in an alleyway; laughter of a group of men gambling outside a sake shop… Get her out of the city, he reflected. I mean to do that, in any case…

  Because he wanted her and she was always holding something back. He’d always assumed it was his “disreputable” ways; now he was starting to suspect it was her shadowy background that really stood between them.

  Too much mystery in my life, he concluded, walking up to the open door of the watch house where an ippuku standing outside in black baggy trousers and long, black vest with pointed shoulders, nodded in recognition…

  *

  Taro sat with him on the porch in back overlooking a small garden with a nearly round pond, overbalanced-looking stone lantern, spiky, long-leaved bushes with pink flowers and a small willow reflected on the still water.

  Taro was big, thick-necked and solid, with a pleasant smile and wore his topknot without shaving his forehead high, unlike samurai. Taro was a great fighter with offbeat weapons and bare hands.

  They had tea after Takezo waved off sake, causing the policeman to raise both eyebrows in silence. They talked for a little while.

  “I’m changing my way of life,” Takezo told him. “No more excessive drinking or recklessness.”

  “A woman’s touch?” The big man smiled.

  “My life leads nowhere.” Takezo shrugged.

  “You might have won fame where it would have helped,” said Taro, judiciously, serious. “But you chose to serve Lord Yourself.” Looked at the water full of hazy sky, swaying willow and flower reflections. “Naturally, one envies your freedom.”

  “But not the straw I lie in.” Takezo grinned, liking him, as always.

  “A man makes a choice.”

  “It only seems like a choice, later,” the ronin remarked. “I really do wish time went sideways.”

  “A woman, for certain,” chuckled the big policeman. “So, how can I risk my position, today? Or did you just come for my advice on matters of love? Want help with one of your haiku? In danger of arrest?”

  “All of those,” said Takezo. “But I’ll settle for you risking your career.”

  Taro plunked a tiny white pebble into the center of the pond and watched ripples bend and break up the perfect surface image. Sighed.

  “Of course,” he responded. “When?”

  “In two nights.”

  “I’ve heard your name come up.” Looked at the ronin’s thoughtful, faintly ironical face. “No need to mention you have strong enemies among the clans. They say you are, as usual, irritating people a sane man would cross a muddy street in new sandals to avoid greeting.”

  “I have to make a living.” Sighed and shrugged and tossed down a fresh, hot cup of tea and felt the warm rush that brought the sweat out, instantly. Really wanted a drink, now. “Two nights from now, if you help me, maybe I can solve my problems and take a long vacation.”

  “If you live even two suns,” the policeman said.

  The tea helped but didn’t take the edge off.

  No disguise, this time. He stopped by the stable where’d he borrowed the horse and told the son (in the yard, this time shoveling grain into buckets) he’d left the mount in a village; said when he returned it he’d reward them well.

  Then he caught a ride in a cart to the river where he took a poled boat upstream to the famous shrine.

  Twenty-Four

  At the shrine

  When he disembarked on the long, thin dock, the air felt thick to breathe. Swords in belt, he stumped up the long, straight stairs that cut through the dense blue flower and red berry bushes. Halfway
to the top, sweat beaded and itched on his face and neck while small, black flies clustered around his ears.

  He went through the round arch in the low, red tile and white-brick wall into a bare white sand Zen-style rock garden, dominated at the far end by a 15 foot statue of the Buddha.

  I’ll just present a bill and that will be that… Because he suspected they’d try to cheat or even kill him. It wouldn’t be the first time and this whole strange business was so convoluted and confusing he couldn’t tell if he’d been hired by friends, enemies or indifferent third parties: the more he looked the less he saw.

  And there was Hideo in dark silks with 4 bodyguards. He was just placing a prayer, written on bright paper, on the image’s round, pale-rose colored stone belly. Incense was burning in several bowls, the smoke hanging, thick and slow in the heavy air.

  To Buddha prayers were children’s begging wishes, he thought, and who can be enlightened by wishing? Who can be enlightened, anyway? These murderous fools? Takezo the sot and woman’s plaything?

  The men watched him approach. He sensed they were serious and strong fighters. And there would be more in the area. This could be ugly; not like the funeral.

  He stopped, not too close, and said:

  “Lord Hideo, I am looking for a solid rock in the mist around me.” He wiped his sweaty eyes with one loose sleeve. “Your grief seems real and becomes you.”

  Hideo was fierce and intent. His men were ready.

  “So,” he said, “you come as yourself this time, spy. Without your flute and eyepatch.” He folded his arms. “You choose to provoke me at sacred moments. This is the last time. You will cripple no more of my men.”

  “In no case was it your order that endangered them, lord.” That was true: when he’d fought the duels a few years ago, Issa had provoked the samurai to fight him; this time he was sure it was Reiko who’d sent them after the seemingly crippled musician at the cemetery. “I had no wish to injure anybody.”

  Hideo scowled. Blinked the sweat from his eyes. This weather dulled and irritated everyone. Fingered the curved dagger in his white sash, his only weapon.

  “You came here to tell me this?” Shook his head.

  “I don’t believe you buried your daughter,” Takezo said.

  “My daughter?” His face was harsh as a bare bone with fury. “Madman. Kill him!” he commanded, then, as the retainers closed in: “Wait. Not on holy ground. This is intolerable. When next we meet you will die.”

  “Nevertheless,” said Takezo, wiping sweat from his eyes, again, “there is a plot within your clan.”

  Stir the pot, he thought. See what bubbles up…

  “Explain yourself.”

  “I think those responsible are close to you.”

  “Which men?”

  Hideo acted like he was letting him sink deeper, the ronin noted, but was obviously interested.

  “I don’t know if they’re all men,” Takezo demurred.

  The next reaction was extreme and showed the Lady Issa might be in the lord’s thoughts.

  “Fool!” he shouted, drawing the short blade and leaping forward except his guards moved faster and came between him and Takezo, everybody skidding a little on the slippery gravel.

  As they moved to cut him off from the exit, he automatically went the other way towards the statue and ran up the lotus-seated feet and legs, climbing onto the huge knees, then the massive, protuberant lap, kicking off his footgear for better traction and taking a stance, sword undrawn.

  Furious Hideo tried climbing up after him but was restrained by his samurai.

  “Why would I invent things?” Takezo reasoned. “I have nothing to gain.”

  He was hoping there were no bowmen in the retinue today.

  The angry lord shrugged his men off, sucked in breath and controlled himself though his face stayed pinkish under the pale, faintly yellow skin poets (referring to women, generally) called white.

  “Send for archers, my lord,” one man with a thin, Mongol-like moustache recommended.

  “Or short ladders to scale up there,” suggested another. “His position is strong.”

  Hideo waved one arm. Called up to the unkempt swordsman:

  “Proof?”

  Takezo nodded. Wiped the sweat from his face, again. The air was saturated.

  “I will bring proof,” he asserted. “When I do, I expect payment.”

  “Money?” the Mongol-moustache barked. He was a tall, wide, tigerish man; serious opposition. He had a long jaw and big eyes, showing much white and bulging slightly like a Zen ink sketch of some fierce, Darumic bodhisattva. “Are you a merchant, man of rags?”

  “I work for myself and have no koku of rice and stipend from the clan. I like to eat.”

  “I have heard you like best to drink.”

  “‘Who could abstain altogether?’” semi-quoted Takezo from his perch on the Buddha’s belly. He observed this fellow was a duelist with a precise manner and that it would be best to fight him in a disorderly way. “Still, you look well-fed, sir.”

  The fellow took a dull coin out of an inside pocket and flipped it up near the ronin’s feet. Hideo, clearly, allowed this man great latitude, doubtless the clan’s reigning champion, Akira. He’d heard of him.

  “Descend,” he invited, “and I’ll pay you more.”

  Takezo squatted down on his hams, like a farmer in the field.

  “Not enough pay, Akira-san,” he said, “to buy my services. I won’t kill you cheap.”

  “That’s true.” The master swordsman grinned, unpleasantly, up at him. “The price would be your life.”

  “You talk like court ladies,” Hideo interrupted. “Very sweet. Takezo, bring proof or Akira will kill you.”

  “My anus is already leaking with fear,” the detective answered.

  “A repellant picture,” Akira responded, knitting the brows above his wide, bulged eyes. “Make sure to do your business before we meet.”

  Everyone laughed but Hideo whose scowl now looked like a demon carving.

  “Bring proof,” he barked, “and you’ll get your gold! Say no names without proof. Make no hints.”

  “Yes,” nodded Takezo.

  They turned, almost as one, and headed for the archway, feet crunching the bright white pebbles, the hazy sun cast soft afternoon shadows before them. As they were going out, Akira turned back and leered.

  “Don’t keep me waiting,” he called back.

  “I long to please you,” Takezo called back and heard Hideo’s muffled disgust from outside.

  “Saying a prayer to Monju, no doubt,” the daimio said, with contempt.

  Takezo chuckled, squatting there, amazed he’d come through without disaster, again. Shook his head. Monjushiri, patron saint of homosexuals, based on the supposition that the Buddha had been (as Shakyamuni) unnaturally fond of this disciple.

  He went back downriver and dozed off while considering his next move. The potion tea was wearing off. He shook himself awake and realized he was hungry as the poled boat docked. Stopped for a bun at a small market area and hadn’t taken two steps into the mellow, hazy late afternoon light when a bony hand at the end of a skinny arm plucked at his sleeve as he passed through a crowd of women going to market.

  He felt no threat but gripped the wrist hard which brought a tiny exclamation from the little man he already was sure was Yazu of the underworld. Who else was so unaware as to touch an armed ronin without permission?

  “What a pleasure,” he said without looking at him. “Unexpected.”

  That made the nervous little man more nervous since “unexpected” behavior by a commoner to a warrior was grounds for instant death, in many cases. Takezo now looked sidelong at him, holding the bun in his free hand, chewing.

  “Master,” said Yazu, with a nervous look of triumph, “see what I have done!” Still holding on the swordsman took the proffered item: a golden comb set with jade. “For your lady. For your lady.”

  “Hmn. What about the girls?”
/>
  He released him and they walked together now, the sun muted and diffused by the breezeless haze.

  There will be a great storm soon, he thought. Maybe an earthquake to follow as in “My Hut”… maybe famine and fire, too… have we not earned it? Bah! The air sits like lead, today…

  And then in a flash he knew the ring had not been meant to fool anybody. It had been hidden on the corpse by someone in a hurry. Whatever Issa knew, she hadn’t known that. Where did this plot end and what was the real point? For the first time he had an uneasy feeling that Miou’s hints were real warnings; that this was something very big with stakes… who knew what stakes?

  And why bring in poor Takezo? He asked himself.

  “Which girls, master?”

  “What?”

  “You said –”

  “The ring didn’t fit. Who wears finger rings, anyway? It was put on her after Issa saw her. Had to be.”

  “Have you had something strong to drink, master?”

  “Why do you call me ‘master’?”

  Yazu suddenly prostrated himself at Takezo’s feet, causing people to drop away for fear the ronin was about to slay the skinny man for some offense.

  “Ai. I wish my son to learn technique of fighting from you, great sir.”

  “Ah.”

  “If I succeed in all you ask may I not humbly request this? I wish to serve you as Cinzu served his lord –”

  “Nonsense. Come on. You’re attracting attention.”

  But he didn’t actually kick him. That was interesting, he realized.

  Yazu stood up, bowing, furtive but clearly sincere.

  “I want to learn too so I can stand up against the bullies and –”

  “No. You want to overcome your wife,” the spy laughed. “Or have an excuse to hide from her.”

  “I swear, master, I wish to learn from you.”

  Takezo shook his head in wonder, grinning.

  “It makes sense,” he declared. “My disciple ought to be a petty criminal outcast. I will teach you the two-jug style of sake-do.”

  “You mock me, sensei.”

  “No. I mock me.” Laughed. “Very well, pupil, go now to House Sanjuro and find my Miou who is called, there, Chrysanthemum. Give her this trinket and say I will come to her as soon as I can.” He handed back the comb. “In any case, our debt is cancelled and you will now have a new one that you can never repay.”